


it's always have and never hold

by publunchesownmyass



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publunchesownmyass/pseuds/publunchesownmyass
Summary: Hiraeth(n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.“I know, I know, Lou, I know that...I just don’t understand , I mean when did we- when did it all just…” He trails off, a few tears slipping over his cheeks, darkening his lashes and Louis can’t look away. He’s taken, mesmerised, by the enigmatic ambience that is Harry Styles.In which Harry and Louis fall apart and then back into place.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	it's always have and never hold

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anyone or anything.
> 
> angst is simultaneously the bane of my existence and my will to live

_ Hiraeth _

_ (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.  _

  
  


Around him, the air is compact; icy molecules solid against every exposed patch of skin, the slice of wrist in between the edge of frayed gloves and the cuff of his jacket, his nose, pinked and frozen, his ankles where the jeans cut off and the socks don’t quite begin. 

Louis takes a drag of his cigarette, tipping his head back and exhaling so that the smoke mingles with the white clouds above him. They look like an endless oasis of nothing and everything, the pure embodiment of what dreams are made of, the inexplicable feeling of falling, a blinded eye.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out here; feels like seconds, feels like years. 

“Honey? Are you coming in?” 

(oh the harshness of a lover’s voice)

Cigarette dropped on the iced pavement, ground out with the toe of his Vans, Louis turns around, the acrid taste of chagrin rising in him.  _ What rises but never falls?  _ He remembers the riddle from somewhere, a faint, dusty memory, but the answer neglects him. His temper, it seems, nowadays, fits what the question so wryly prods at. 

“Yeah, I’ll, uh...be through in a bit,” Louis answers, voice rough from lack of use, mostly so Harry will leave him be. It works anyhow, because a few seconds pass and then he hears the backdoor close quietly again, the soft thud of it a harmony to his ears. 

There’s a metaphor in there, he’s sure of it, a closed door between two deformed lovers. 

He heads in thirty minutes later - because he’s not a complete twat - once the clouded Yorkshire moors have drained the last of his interest away and the cold has become unbearable. Wipes his shoes carefully on the mat, kicks them off and stacks them away neatly next to his boyfriend’s. 

(and what a pretty domestic picture that makes) 

Shivering at the sudden change in temperature, Louis shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair before making his way slowly through to the rest of their little house. This one’s a small one, settled on the outskirts of northern England, just the right place to hide two world-famous pop stars. 

He walks into the living room to find Harry tucked under a tartan blanket, book clutched in his hands as he reads. There’s a hot mug of tea on the table next to him and Louis can’t help but wish, bitterly and unfairly, that Harry had bothered to make him one. 

There is an odd satisfaction, he thinks, in finding things - no matter how small - that he can use to ignite the flame of his ever existing anger. These days, he clutches onto anything (an unmade bed, the radiators not being turned on, his favourite cup being used) so that he can justify his inane aggravation, uncaring about how petty and childish that makes him. 

“Were you gonna make me a cup of tea, then? 

“What?” 

“You have a drink. Could you not be arsed to make two or something?” 

“What, Louis, I- I didn’t know when you were coming in, did I? Could have been hours!”

“Yeah, but it fuckin’ wasn’t, was it? I told you I was coming back in, the least you could have done was boil the fuckin’ kettle!” 

“Jesus  _ christ,  _ listen to yourself! Stop treating me like your bloody housewife, Louis, or I swear to god I’ll-” 

“What, what’ll you do? You’re not gonna do anything, babe, and we both know it.” 

“You know what, you can be such a fucking dick sometimes.” 

“Right, cheers. Now are you gonna get up off your arse and make me a cuppa?” 

(and the second lover storms upstairs in a cloud of anger and frustration. the first lover pretends not to hear their tears for the rest of the night.) 

  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s not, like- it’s not a  _ rough patch _ . Their relationship isn’t a fucking crochet blanket; it can’t be torn and mended and still weave so smoothly. In all honesty, Louis doesn’t know what it is that they’re going through. It feels like a break up. He thinks it might be. 

It happens three night after the stupid tea argument, when Harry had been reduced to tears and Louis had spent the night on the sofa, as what’s occurred most nights recently. The thing is, they both have very different types of anger and it shows, especially in these past few months. 

Louis has loud anger; he’ll yell and he’ll curse and he’ll probably break a few things. He’ll say things he doesn’t mean and will go on and on and on if someone doesn’t stop him. The longer he continues, the worse it gets, emotions spreading like wildfire unless someone manages to put them out. His voice won’t shake; no, it’s sharp, stoney and that’s what makes it so powerful. He rarely means anything he says when he’s angry but the hard emotion behind the words makes it  _ feel _ like he does and that’s what makes it so damaging. It’s- he’s not  _ uncontrollable _ . He doesn’t have anger issues. He just is. 

And then Harry. Quiet anger. Voice shaking, quivering under the weight of what he’s feeling. Crying, trembling with the force of emotion, holding it in until he can’t anymore. And once he’s let it all out, he’ll be drained, left as silent as the night, a mask painted over his features as he sits and thinks about the argument. 

That’s what makes them so self-destructive, Louis thinks. Because whatever he yells during the heat of an argument, he’ll forget as soon as he gets a breather.  _ He  _ knows he didn’t mean it, it was nothing, just words thrown out in the face of fury. But Harry will collect them all, turn them over in his mind pensively long after the acrimony has withered and died. 

Anyway, it happens three nights later. Louis’ sitting in their room, leaning against the headboard as he smokes his weed, dully thinking about how shit everything is. Harry appears in the doorway. There’s two suitcases next to him and a big bag at his feet. 

“I’m, uh...I’m going to Mitch’s. Gonna stay there for a while...um, yeah.” His voice is quiet and he’s looking at the ground, scuffing his feet along the hardwood floors. Louis wishes he wouldn’t. 

“Alright,” he takes a hit, letting the thick white smoke stream out of his mouth before glancing out the window. It’s raining and his mind musters up the energy to realise wryly what a cliché that is. “Sound.” 

There’s a silence for a minute, swollen and painful, and then-

“So that’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? ‘Sound’?” Harry sounds angry and, when Lous tears his eyes away from the window, he looks it too. He’s thrown his arms up out of frustration, eyebrows arched. 

Louis sighs, taking another hit and breathing it out again before replying, voice dull and tired. “What d’you want me to say, Harry?” 

His boyfriend looks at him for a second and then huffs, disbelief colouring his voice when he speaks. “I don’t know, maybe ‘when will you be back’?” 

“Okay,” Louis plays with the joint in his hand for a few seconds before sighing again heavily, looking up at him like it’s costing him to do so. “When will you be back?” 

Harry stares at him, jaw working as though he’s trying to figure out if he should answer his boredly-asked question. His voice is tight when he says, “I don’t know... maybe a couple of weeks. A month.” 

“Right.” Louis raises the joint to his lips, looking out the window and then glancing back at his boyfriend when he makes a noise somewhere in between a squeak and a shout. 

“Is that it, then?” Harry asks, gesturing wildly with one arm and Louis can hear the suppressed tears in his trembling voice, the way they’re gathering in his eyes, can see his face contort between frustration and distress. “You’re just gonna let me leave? Are you, Louis? Are you just gonna let me walk out of here? Not even gonna tell me to stay? That you’ll, I don’t know, miss me-” 

His voice catches, cracks, and he cuts himself off, pressing one hand to his face to stave off the tears. Louis watches him, a lump rising in his throat. He swallows it down forcefully. He’s not going to cry. 

Harry exhales shakily and when he next speaks his voice is more secure but still as tight as before. “Alright. Ok. Fine. I’ll- I’ll see you, Louis.” 

He moves to walk out of the room but stops at the door, looking back at him. “Call me, please. I just- I really can’t do this. I don’t want to, Louis.” And his voice is so raw that Louis almost jumps out of bed and wraps him in his arms, close to begging him not to leave. 

Instead he just nods. Glances back to the window. Takes another hit. 

  
  
  
  


It’s March when Louis next sees him. A month and a half after he left, a month and a half after their breakup-that-wasn’t-a-breakup. The two of them are teetering on a precipice, closer to falling than to balancing and honestly, at this point Louis’ pissed. 

He’s pissed because Harry just  _ left. _ Pissed because he hasn’t answered his calls even though he’d told him to call. Pissed because if they’re broken up, then  _ fine _ ; he doesn’t care, he just wants to go out and get himself a nice shag. But he’s not going to do that if their relationship is still hanging on by a thread. 

It’s probably ironic, in some twisted sense of the word, that the next time they see each other is at a club in London. Louis was dragged out by Calvin and Oli, hiding from paps and feeling like he was twenty years old instead of twenty-seven. It’s nice. 

He returned to the city soon after Harry left, turning up at Oli’s flat and crashing on the sofa ever since. It’s as good as it sounds, so pretty shit. 

_ Colours.  _ The word floats foggily to the forefront of his heavy, inebriated mind and he feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips. There are so many colours. Loud and arrogant, they are, jabbing at his eyes from all corners of the massive club, flashing over the crowds of people, painting everything in striking icy blues one moment and rapid, burnt oranges the next. 

Calvin’s fucked off with some bird to the toilets but Oli’s stayed with him at the bar, pointing out various guys and girls that might catch his eye. He sees Harry from across the bar and, maybe he’s too drunk, but he doesn’t even feel surprised. Just a heavy weight 

dragging his chest down, a numb feeling of “ _ here we go again… _ ” 

He watches him for a while. How idiosyncratic it is, almost amusing in the grim way that a dark-comedy has one in stitches, that Harry looked the epitome of happy, glowing in the dim light, while he himself was sat over here feeling like the filthy grime that collects in gutters. 

He’s by himself, it seems, and Louis can’t help but sigh at that, mumbling to himself about how Harry should know better than arriving alone at random clubs late at night. What ordinary things fame forces out of your hands. 

And everything's fine, it is, until this bloke - ugly fucker, Louis thinks spitefully, all too-light hair and a boxy face - approaches him. 

Even then, it’s alright. The music’s throbbing colourful vibrations beneath his feet, the people everywhere are a comforting shield and Louis grabs another drink, swallowing a mouthful, the buzz in his veins thrumming a satisfactory beat. 

But then Harry’s laughing and the guy’s leaning closer, brushing one hand through his hair and Louis squints at them. He’s too drunk for this, he knows that much. 

It’s only when the guy’s hand moves lower, out of sight behind the bar but still clearly very much on Harry that he moves. He knocks down the rest of his drink, slamming it down on the table and stumbling to his feet. 

_ “Louis? Louis, man, where are ya- oh, no, come on, mate, leave it, leave it, _ ” Oli’s hand grabs his shoulder but he shakes it off easily, anger burning through him as he walks closer to the pair. 

The frantic speed dizzies his head and Louis squeezes his eyes shut to savour one long moment of sweet darkness before blearily opening them again and stumbling through people, their bodies twisting and curling around him like frenzied trapeze artists. 

His heads throbbing, pounding dully, and he isn’t sure exactly what he took at Oli’s before he left but he knows it’s having an effect on him now. Brushing roughly past more people, ignoring their annoyed noises, he reaches them. 

_ “Oh, fuck, Louis, what are you doing here? _ ” 

Everything sounds like it’s underwater, words moving in slow motion across an album cover...what one...white lines wiggling over a black background...an Arctic Monkey’s one, yes, that was it, he’s sure. 

Louis doesn’t spare Harry a glance, eyes too heavy to bother, turning his attention to the man instead. Fucking  _ prick,  _ he thinks. But then he must say it out loud because the guy frowns, holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture and glancing at Harry who’s gasped - a hushed, embarrassed “ _ Louis’ _ . 

_ “Hey, man, I’m sorry, we were just talking, I didn’t know you were-”  _

Louis cuts him off, gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him forward roughly. He feels Harry grab him but shakes him off. And maybe he should be thinking about his career, his public image, how the media would love to get their hands on a story like this -  _ Drunk Tomlinson Sparks A Fight -  _ and how they wouldn’t even have to twist it to make it seem bad. 

_ “Alright, listen, mate, don’t fuckin’ touch ‘im, don’t fuckin’ talk to ‘im, he’s here with me so keep your fuckin’ distance and find some other slag to fuck alright?”  _

His accents thickened and he can hear how much he’s slurring but he doesn’t care, too far gone to even think about what he’s saying. The blokes frozen in his seat, eyes wide and, even though his vision is blurring, Lous can see the fear in his expression. Blood roaring in his ears, he pulls one arm back, ready to punch that dick right in his face, when hands grab at him. 

_ Oli.  _ He shakes him off again, rearing back - a dragon, fire roaring out of it’s nostrils, lost in the midst of wrath - when a second pair of hands wrestle the man out of his grip, whispering something in his ear before sending him away, back over the dancefloor.  _ Calvin.  _

Louis’ left there, breathing heavily, head spinning, Calvin glaring at the staring people, ushering them away, Oli still holding onto his arm and Harry. He looks over at him, praying even in this inebriated state that maybe he’s not too pissed.

Harry doesn’t even look at him. 

  
  
  
  


“Look, I’m just- I’m sorry, Haz. I...I’m sorry, I dunno what else to say. Just...please, call me back. Please, baby, I’m fucking- I’m begging you. I don’t-  _ [inhales shakily]  _ I don’t wanna lose you, god, please-  _ [silence] _ I just. I love you. You know that, you know I do. Please.” 

  
  
  


April arrives with cold cups of tea, long hot showers, lukewarm bottles of Heineken in front of daytime telly. Louis can feel himself slipping away, like one gust of wind would blow him away, make him disintegrate into a thousand shards of what he once was. He feels lonely. 

He doesn’t know where to go; what is home without Harry? He’s thought about retreating to LA, the promising land of sunshine and celebrities, maybe getting into the studio, recording some songs. He never gets round to it. 

Some nights, he won’t sleep, lying in his bed - Oli gently yet firmly kicked him out a few weeks back and he’s been staying at his own London house ever since - just thinking.  _ A man’s mind is his greatest enemy.  _ It’s only now that he thinks he understands what that sentence means. 

He just- he can’t  _ remember _ . Desperately, he’ll try and trace time back to when their relationship went sour - and properly sour this time, not a break, not even a break-up. This time it feels worse, almost, perhaps because they were so closely entwined after that first separation, winding themselves tighter together, vows to love and love forever whispered affectionately over pillows dusted in moonlight. 

This time, there wasn’t a clean break. No talking, no communication, no sitting down at the kitchen table. Instead, it was swollen radio silence, static crackling loudly in place of where there had previously been soft terms of endearment, hushed  _ i love you _ ’s, words too gentle to be spoken above a whisper. 

This time, Louis thinks, heart breaking even more at the notion, they didn’t break up. No, this time, they simply fell apart. 

The next morning, just before noon, when he’s nursing a cold cup of tea and staring blankly at  _ This Morning _ that’s playing on the telly, his phone rings. It’s a shrill noise, vibrating from where it’s laying on the coffee table and, although he hesitates slightly, he’s picked it up on the third ring. 

It’s not Harry and the realisation makes his heart fall slightly in his chest- 

(the pathetic whine of a kicked dog, rejected and pushed out into the street) 

-but only slightly because the person is probably one of the last people he would have ever thought to call him.  _ Zayn _ . Louis and him, they don’t speak much. At all, actually. Maybe twice in the past few years. 

Louis loves him, he does, but the feeling of abandonment is still so sharp, such a fresh wound, in his chest and what do they have to talk about? Life as millionaires? The good old days when they were forced into such a harsh world so young? 

Still, he knows he’ll answer it anyway so he swipes to accept the call, holding it up to his ear. 

“Hell-” his voice is rough, almost husky, from disuse and he coughs before trying again. “Hello?” 

“Hey, it’s, uh- it’s me, man.” An emotion Louis can’t place lingers under the smooth surface of his words and he feels a sense of dread curdle in his stomach. Nevertheless, he’s quietly happy to hear Zayn’ voice. 

“Right, yeah, no, I...uh, I saw, yeah.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

For a moment, the static crinkles between the line, the two ends, the two phones, the two people. 

“Yeah, um...why’re you calling, you alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m grand. Just, like...‘ve been speaking to Harry. Uh, a bit more these past few months.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Louis can feel his chest tightening and he shifts slightly on the sofa. Grabs the remote and mutes the telly. 

“Yeah, listen, man, I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you but you need to sort it out, he’s-he’s really upset, Louis, I dunno if you’ve kept in contact at all but just call him. Or text or something.” 

Louis exhales, feeling his temper - these days always hovering so close to the surface - rising. He tries to regain some sort of control over it, reigning it in with a clenched fist but his voice is sharp when he speaks. 

“And you don’t think I ‘ave? Don’t think I’ve left him hundreds of fuckin’ voicemails just to ‘ave him ignore every one of me calls?” 

“Look, Louis, I don’t know, he’s just really down right now, not been eating as much-” 

“What, so he’s been off sobbing to you and who t’fuck knows how many other people, crying about how I’m not there for him when he’s the one denying me every time I try and reach out?” Louis can feel fury burning through his veins, bubbling like acid in his stomach as his voice grows even more steely. ‘Who t’fuck does he think he is-” 

“You know what, Louis,” Zayn cuts him off and Louis feels an acrid sense of satisfaction at the anger present in his voice. “You don’t have to be such a fucking dick about this. Do you not realise how fucking bad this must be for me to call you?”

“Well, why don’t you both just bugger off alright, mate? I don’t need your fucking advice or anything-” 

“No, listen to me, I’m still fucking speaking. Can you not pull your bloody head out of your arse for long enough to realise that I left the band four fucking years ago so that I can stop dealing with this shit yet  _ I’m  _ calling you because I’m that fucking worried about Harry?” 

“Ok, so you’re not a complete twat, have you got anything else to add? Or is this call just for you to clear your conscience?” 

Zayn doesn’t reply for a moment, huffing out a noise of disbelief mingled with contempt before breathing in, clearly trying to reel his anger in. 

“Look, as I said before, I don’t know what’s going on between you-”

“Yeah, you’re bloody right about that.” 

“- _ but _ ,” Zayn presses on harshly, “if you don’t get him to talk to you, you’re gonna regret it and we both know it. Harry’s not- he’s not an unreasonable guy, Louis. You know that. There’s a reason he’s not calling you back...just figure out why and then tell him. Please? You’re both shit without each other.” 

Louis shook his head slightly, jaw clenched. 

“Right, okay. Thanks for...y’know, calling and that.” 

“Yeah…” 

He ends the call, stuffing his phone back into his pocket and immediately burying his head in his hands. Tears rise to his eyes like shards of glass, pricking painfully. He’s just- he’s  _ frustrated  _ and pissed and upset and he’s been aching for so  _ long, _ goddamn it. He needs some kind of release, some kind of drug that can cast his emotions to the side and welcome him into it’s psychedelic arms. The rest of the day passes in a drunken haze. 

Louis’ never felt more alone in his entire life. 

  
  
  
  
  


It’s the sweet early days of May when Harry accepts his call. The evening after a warm, sunny afternoon that Louis spent in Hyde Park, smoking and laughing with friends over a small barbeque and six-packs of beer, before trekking back to his flat and collapsing on the sofa. The recent fortnight has been a flurry of activity compared to the time before it and it glistens gold in his memory. 

Right now, though, his heart is beating in his chest, faster than a humming bird’s wings, making his mind blur with thoughts. It’s the first time he’s going to hear his voice in about three months. It can’t have been that short a time, he thinks suddenly, chest squeezing, it feels like years ago since Harry told him he was leaving. 

“Hey,” his voice is tense, cautious- 

(the careful approach of one to a baby deer standing still and frightened) 

-and he’s just hoping,  _ praying,  _ that Harry will hear him out. 

“Hi.” 

_ Jesus.  _ Louis feels his throat constrict at the word - and it’s ridiculous, it’s just two letters, but that’s Harry, that’s his baby, speaking them, voice raw and deep and foggy with the weight of emotion. 

“Harry, please, don’t hang up, I need to talk to you, god-” Louis cuts himself off before his voice can crack pathetically, waiting with bated breath to hear Harry’s answer. 

“I-I wasn’t going to, I know, I need to speak to you, I don’t want to- to do this anymore, Louis, I  _ can’t. _ ” 

If Louis had thought it was difficult hearing him say ‘hi’, that sentence leaves him crushed and he doesn’t say anything for a moment before the meaning of it crashes over him and he inhales sharply. 

“Are you- are you breaking up with me?” Stares blankly at the opposite wall. Wonders detachedly why there’s still the noise of early evening traffic drifting up from outside, why he can hear people cheering and laughing below, why no one is bothered that the world is  _ collapsing,  _ crumbling like dust, curled remains of it floating through the air like black ash around him. 

“I don’t- god, I don’t know, Louis,” Harry sounds close to tears, voice on the edge of a pitiful sob. “I love you, you know I do, christ, but this- this is  _ hurting me _ . I mean, this isn’t what it used to be like, we were never like this before.” 

Louis slumps forward, sliding one hand over his face in distress before breathing out shakily. “I know, I know. But I  _ love  _ you Harry, I do, and we can- we can get back to that, I want to fix this, I can’t be without you.” 

(you fool there’s nothing left to fix) 

Harry starts crying then, breaking down so far away in quiet, utterly miserable little sobs that sound like they’ve been wrenched from him. It makes Louis grip his phone tighter, the plastic carving indents into his palm. He squeezes his eyes shut at the noise, willing his resolve to strengthen as it dissolves like sand. 

“Louis, please, please, I need to see you, I want to work this out, fuck, I-I can’t do this, I can’t do anything without you anymore, I  _ need _ you, please-” 

Harry’s desperate, words throwing themselves out of his mouth frantically as he cries and Louis feels so  _ helpless _ , so useless without being able to touch, to comfort. It’s breaking his broken heart, it really is. 

“Baby-”

-Harry lets out a broken sob at that- 

“-listen to me, please. Where are you right now? Can you tell me? Love?” 

Shaky breaths, thick with tears, trying to regain some sort of control. 

“I-I’m in LA. My house, you know where.” 

Louis nods, hums in confirmation. ‘Look, I’m gonna catch a flight out tomorrow morning, alright? I need to see you and we’re going to talk, yeah? We’re gonna work this out.” 

“O-okay,” little snuffle, “please. Please call me when you land. I-I love you.” 

“I love you too. And I-” his voice catches, “I’m sorry, Haz. I’m sorry, I fucked up, I-” 

“Louis, please, I don’t- I don’t want to do this over the phone,” Harry cuts him off, sniffling slightly and he just nods, swallows thickly. “Just come to LA tomorrow.” 

“I will. I will.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Los Angeles is beautiful; sunny and bright from outside the window of his car from the airport. There’s palm trees and a gorgeously clear sky and large, grand houses and a complete movie-type atmosphere but Louis isn’t even focused on any of that. 

There’s tight balls of apprehension in his stomach, anxiety tugging at his sleeve as nerves coil in his stomach. 

The driver pulls up next to Harry’s house soon later and Louis exhales, running one hand through his hair. The place looks exactly the same as it always has, except he’s never turned up to it feeling like this. 

“Cheers, mate,” Louis gets out, tipping the driver before grabbing his bags and making his way up the drive. The sun’s burning down on him and he tugs his sunglasses up into his hair with his free hand, feeling like a complete cock as he stands outside the door. 

Was this the world’s vile, warped plan all along? To grant him the dreams he knew, the ones he chased after, while viciously snatching the ones his thoughtless teenage self never considered? A perverse bartering of souls for wishes, the young one trading their older self? 

The breath he takes is deep, caving into his lungs as he rings the bell, stuffing his hand into his pocket after.  _ jesuschristohfuckinghellthisistorturebloodychristopenthedoorwhatthefuckistakinghimsolongshittingbuggeringfuckthisishellfuckitchristmanhowisitpossibletofeelthishitcani- _

The door swings open. 

(a memory uncapped; back in the quaint little cottage on the outskirts of Yorkshire, feels like decades ago, when the back door had closed with a thud between them per Louis’ request and by Harry’s hand, is this the same door opening again - still, unlocking from Louis’ unspoken request and Harry’s shaking hand) 

Harry looks awful, really. Well, no, he looks lovely, lightly tanned, clear skin, tufts of curled hair like some kind of earthly angel. Except the angel’s eyes are red, tired lines creasing their face, drained and exhausted. 

“ _ Louis,”  _ Harry presses a hand over his mouth as soon as the sound is uttered, as if to quench the noise that’s now floating in the warm air between them. 

Louis can’t stop looking at him; can’t take his eyes off the man before him and he’s sure they’re every cliché in history when he steps forward, the nerves previously there vanishing like a camera shuttering. Harry’s looking at him, expression lost between so many emotions that he can’t decipher them. 

“Louis,” Harry whispers again, fingers falling away from his mouth. He says his name like it’s a treasure to be held, a pray, a plea. They’re close now, so much closer than they have been in the past  _ year _ . “Louis, please.” 

He stops, suddenly, the hand that was moving to graze Harry’s hip stilling because if this isn’t- if Harry doesn’t want this then he’ll step away, of course he will, there’s no question about it. 

But then he shakes his head slightly, eyes wide, lips shaking slightly as he moves forward, further closing the gap. 

‘No, no, I- please, Louis, do, please.” 

And who is he to deny such a polite ask, tinted with a romantic kind of desperation, coloured with vintage passion. His gaze drifts down to Harry’s lips where they’re parted, so invitingly, pink and soft as the petals on roses. He moves forward too, purposefully, wrapping him into his arms like it’s the only place he belongs. 

And then, quite suddenly, those petal lips are crashing onto his own, bodies slamming against one another in a fierce kind of beauty. And there’s heat behind it – a whole inferno of flames, licking up his spine in vibrations, every sane thought wiped out of his head and replaced with complete, white satisfaction. His body is on fire, igniting itself mercilessly and nobody knows except Harry. 

They’re kissing messily, tongues sliding against each other hotly and- and he can barely breathe, barely think, senses crowded with _HarryHarryHarry_ and if that isn’t the best feeling in the world. 

He’s pressing Harry up against the wall, kicking the front door shut behind him with his foot as he runs his hands all over him, unable to stop himself after so long. 

“Harry, god, baby, I-” 

“I know, I know, Louis, I know,” Harry pours the words into his mouth and Louis pulls away suddenly, the sweet taste of him turned salty. Then he sees why; tears brimming so prettily over the rims of his eyes, falling thickly down the pinked flesh of his cheeks. 

“Oh,  _ baby,”  _ nothing more than a coo of words, so, so, soft, incredible in it’s gentleness. Louis stroked his face, brushing over his cheekbone and Harry nuzzles into his hand, face crumpling like the most delicate sheet of paper. 

“Kiss me, please, I-” the tiniest catch in his voice. “I need it.” 

Nodding, Louis just lets his eyes trace all over his face for one moment longer before joining their lips together and licking into his mouth. Harry’s tears are running over where they meet, where they’re touching, and it feels like the salty water is sealing them, a bond of the purest emotions, the sweet, ripe taste of love mingled with such a raw, tender expression. 

They’re both getting desperate in their touches and Louis feels Harry cups his face, titling him up so that he can kiss him deeper. He moves his hands round to his bum, squeezing lightly to hear Harry make  _ that  _ noise. God, he never wants to go without this ever again. 

This-  _ this  _ is what the poems write so intricately about, what the songs are composed of, what the movies and books are made solely about. This is something that fame can’t touch and money can’t buy and what the poor man has that the rich man craves. This is why clichés are created and how fairytales are spun. This is why the sun rises every morning and why the moon watches once he sets. 

“God, Louis, c’mon, please, I need- can we-” Harry can barely string two words together, so restless in his arms, squirming for more against his lips. 

“Bedroom,” Louis grunts out, scooping him up like he’s the lightest thing alive. 

They make it there amidst kisses of passion, too lost in each other’s eyes to see much else. Harry’s laying underneath him on the bed, clothes discarded in the heat of it all, kicked onto the floor like dust. Tear tracks are still glistening on his cheeks and Louis pulls away from his mouth, swallowing at what he sees. 

Completely naked, so open and lovely, Harry lies like a painted portrait on the dark sheets. All he needs is a bowl of grapes and an open book lying carelessly next to him and it’s complete. 

He’s a vision and Louis can only take his place as the enraptured viewer. His skin, so milky despite the sun’s colours, looks breathtaking against the bedsheets and he can’t help but touch - innocently at first, cautious in a virginal way, as if this is something new and undiscovered to both. 

Harry’s eyes are blown wide from where he’s staring at him, lips parted, expression mirroring that of Louis’; enamored by the man before him, captivated in such simple beauty. 

“Please, Louis, please, touch me,” the angel begs and Louis complies, of course he does, he always will. 

“ _ Baby _ ,” he whispers again, almost reverently, gently nudging his legs apart to slide in between. 

He spreads Harry’s soft thighs with his hands, making him moan so quietly, letting his fingers travel higher, higher, until he’s skating over his cock. 

“Louis, please, god, I need you, haven’t- ‘s been so long,” Harry twists beneath him, trying to buck his hips up ino Louis’ touch but Louis clamps down on them with the hand that’s not ghosting over Harry’s hard, swollen cock. 

“Yeah? Is that right, darlin’? You haven’t been with anyone, hmm? Kept yourself for me?” 

Harry’s going wild beneath him and he finally wraps one firm hand around his length, tugging it at a ruthlessly slow pace, twisting his wrist at the base before coming back up to swipe over the tip. 

“Yes, yes, I didn’t- would never, could never, only you who does this to me, Louis,  _ fuck, _ ” Harry moans out and Louis groans quietly at his words, moving to hover completely over him. 

Oh, he’s pushing his buttons, every one of them and Louis doesn’t even mind. They’re  _ easy  _ for each other, melting seamlessly together always. 

He can feel his own hard-on throbbing between his legs and he grinds down on Harry slightly,  _ using  _ him, which makes him throw his head back, bucking his hips up without a second thought. 

Louis keeps jerking him off, joining their lips together and swallowing all of his beautiful sounds. Neither of them are going to last long, not after these months without each other, and he removes his hands when Harry’s moans climb an octave, when his thrusts start getting too frantic. 

“Want you to come all over me cock, sweetheart,” he whispers right into Harry’s ear, making him whimper, sucking a bruise into the skin below it before pulling away. 

“Please, christ, yes.” 

(isn’t it odd the desperation that comes with vulnerability) 

He fetches the lube and is about to reach for a condom when Harry stops him with a hand to his wrist. “Don’t, want to feel you in me. Please. Unless..unless you’ve been with anyone?” 

And there’s the vulnerability. Child-like in the wide gaze of his eyes, insecurity and a fear of the answer residing deep inside the green of them. 

‘No, no, god, Harry, there hasn’t been anyone else. Ever.” 

(such bold words for such young love and yet, they fit, they make sense) 

“Okay, okay, yes.” 

His grip on Louis relaxes and, discarding the condom, Louis joins him back on the bed, moving in between his legs again as if he’s spent enough time between them to belong there. 

He fingers Harry until he’s moaning helplessly underneath him, sheets darkened with precome, thighs shaking as three of Louis’ fingers rub constant pressure over his prostate, curling around the nerve-endings until he can barely breathe, euphoria flooding through his veins, lighting him from the inside. 

“God, babe, listen to yourself, got me so hard, darling,” Louis suddenly moves forward, pressing his hard cock against Harry’s arse from where he’s on his hands and knees. “Feel that, baby? Feel how hard you got me? Just from listening to you, looking at you, christ.” 

Harry moans loudly, pushing his bum shamelessly back into him, swiveling tight circles with his hips so that Louis has to stifle a groan at the friction. 

“Louis,  _ Louis,  _ please, ‘m ready, just fuck me,” Harry begs him, arms shaking from where he’s holding himself up. 

Louis nods slightly, heart thumping in his chest as he pulls his fingers out. He feels almost lightheaded, dazed with such a desirable proposal that’s voiced in such a vulgar way. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he mutters. “How’d you want it?” 

“On- on my stomach, please,” Harry asks, even though he doesn’t need to, collapsing his arms and straightening his legs to lie on top of the duvet so prettily. 

It’s just- Louis needs a minute, watching as this wonderful boy offers himself to him, begging him to take him just like he must have done thousands of times before. It feels different this time, though, like this evening is something that books would write about. 

He smooths one hand over Harry’s arse, feeling him squirm and whimper beneath his touch.

“Got such a lovely bum, H,” he tells him, spreading his cheeks and stroking one finger tantalisingly around the rim. He wants to eat him out. Later. 

“C’ _ mon _ , Lou, need you inside me,” Harry grinds against the sheets, a sinful sight that Louis revels in. 

“Alright, honey, I know, I’ve got you,” he says, comforts, because Harry honestly sounds close to tears at this point. 

He spreads his legs, gripping his cock by the base and guiding it between his cheeks, pressing it against his hole without pushing it inside. 

There’s a moment. Just before Harry presses back onto him and he presses in, when it feels like the whole world’s stilled. 

The birds have fallen silent, the cities have frozen, the very air is fixed in place. The earth has stopped breathing. Stopped turning, motionless in the universe. Every single thing has hushed, every drop of water, every stir of wind, everything except him and Harry, breathing together in this silence, as one. 

And then he pushes in. It’s everything at once; his senses blur together, fighting for his attention when all he can focus on is the tight squeeze of Harry around him. He keeps on pushing forward into him, clutching Harry tighter to his chest until he bottoms out. 

Louis thinks his eyesight might’ve blacked out but then he realises his eyes are just tightly closed, mouth dropped open in silent pleasure. 

“Fuck,  _ darlin’, _ god,” he grips onto him as if it’s the only anchor he has and  _ feels  _ it when Harry moans in response. 

“You can -  _ jesus  _ \- you can move, Lou, please _. _ ” 

Louis drags out slowly until just the head of his cock is inside Harry before ramming quickly back in, knocking all the breath he has left out of him. 

“God, Louis,  _ yes, yes,  _ just like that, fuck me so well, shit,” Harry whimpers, turning his face to the side and clenching his hands in the sheets. 

He builds up a harsh pace, fucking him right into the mattress, bed creaking with every rough thrust, the sound a backing track to their own voices mingling together. 

(oh the coarseness of such sweet love) 

He’s sure his fingertips are bruising Harry from how tightly they’re gripping him, but he doesn’t slow down, gripping one hand onto the headboard to gain some leverage as he pounds deeper into him, slamming right against that particular angle on every other thrust until he has Harry writhing beneath him, lost in his own intense pleasure, moans/whimpers/whines collecting together to form a beautiful symphony of noise. 

He keeps going, keeps the constant slap of skin on skin mingling with their own cries until neither knows where one ends and the other begins, hands still craving  _ more,  _ always more, waltzing desperately over their bodies. He feels intoxicated, drunk off the intensity of it all and a part of him begs for this to stop because nothing that feels this good can last forever, that it’s too much, god, it’s all too much. 

The world is a scorching ball of fire, a blurring mess of stories and art and dance, a place of searing hatred and love, both burning a little too hot to quite extinguish the other. 

“Fuckin’- yeah, baby, that’s it, got me so close, darlin’,” Louis suddenly bends over his shoulder, pressing his lips against his, to which Harry opens up immediately for, letting him slide his tongue into his mouth, kissing messily as their bodies grow more frantic. 

“Louis, I can’t, I’m so close, need to come, please,” Harry pants the words right into his open mouth and he nods breathlessly, wrapping one hand around his cock and tugging him off to match his thrusts, making Harry bury his head into his neck, whimpering out moans into the space that rests there. 

He speeds up, feeling his head pound as his own orgasm approaches, heat coiling in his lower abdomen. Louis wants Harry to get there first though, jerking him off faster and gathering precome where it blurts out of the tip to make the slide easier. 

“Oh, yes, LouisLouis _ Louis,  _ fuck, feels so good, so close,” Harry’s thrusting up into his hand, making Louis’ own hips stutter and chase him. 

“Yeah? Gonna come on me cock, baby? Get yourself all messy from how well you’re getting fucked,” Louis ducks his head down, pressing wet kisses along his jaw. 

Harry’s mouth drops open on a moan and all it takes is Louis sucking a bruise onto the sensitive skin below his left ear for him to come, spilling into Louis’ hand, body shuddering. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, look so beautiful, always look so lovely when you come,” he presses gentle kisses all over his face, making Harry blush and whine. 

He clenches tightly around him, again and again, making Louis swear, clutching him closer before fucking into him faster, only chasing his own orgasm now, hips stuttering in their strong rhythm as he finally comes, body collapsing over Harry’s, fucking him right the way through it with a tangled cry of his name. 

They’re both breathing heavily, coming down from their conjoined high, and Louis shifts gently off him when he feels him stir. Neither of them say anything and he feels a sense of something gathering in his stomach. It’s heavy; the denseness of regret, the bitterness of guilt, the sour taste of apprehension all coiling together. 

He doesn’t say anything as Harry slowly sits up next to him, the sheets that were tangled around him falling. He doesn’t say anything as he watches him stand up, although his stomach clenches and his spent dick twitches slightly at the sight of his own come running in white ribbons down the soft inner skin of Harry’s thighs. He still doesn’t say anything when Harry disappears into the connected bathroom, only sighing slightly when he hears the shower turn on. 

Was he a fool? For thinking that them sleeping together would change anything? He thinks he was, although he must have known, on some level, that it was a temporary fix for both of them, a provisional lapse caused by the sudden scorching heat of two lovers reunited after days of separation. 

With a dull throbbing in his chest-

(is this what heartache is)

-he makes his way over to Harry’s chest of drawers. They always have a drawer for each other in either one of their respective houses and his hand shakes slightly as he reaches to open the top left one, which was always filled with his hoodies and t-shirts and sweats. 

What if it’s empty, he thinks suddenly, was Harry playing into the cliché, throwing his boyfriend’s clothes out the window in a moment of tangible fury? 

It’s full when he opens it, of course, although Louis can’t help but notice a few items he  _ knows  _ he left here are missing. They’re mostly a few hoodies and it makes his heart clench when he realises they’re probably sitting in the laundry right now, worn and lived in by his other half. 

By the time Harry gets out of the shower, Louis is dressed in some joggers and a t-shirt, flicking through twitter just for something to do as he sits on the edge of the bed. As soon as he walks in, though, he switches it off, sliding it into his pocket in the same way that one respectably takes off a hat when entering a church, sacred and holy. 

“Hi.” Harry sits on the bed next to him, legs covered in sweatpants and a navy jumper on his torso, the woolen material slipping off one shoulder. 

The tension is thick, palpable between them and Louis suddenly wishes he was anywhere but here, cursing himself for letting it get this bad, praying that it’s fixable. 

“Hey.” He doesn’t really know what else to say and shifts uncomfortably on the bed. What does it mean when it’s awkward with the one person you feel most at ease with? What cursed line has been crossed then? 

Harry nods, head bent as he plays with the hem of his jumper, looping the material over his finger and then pulling it off again. “So, um... I,” he huffs out a slight laugh, nerves clear in the noise, “I just...I don’t know what to say, Louis.” 

And that- well, that hurts more than it should. He stares at him for a few seconds before nodding, running one hand through his hair before glancing away, unable to look at Harry as he speaks. 

“That's okay, that’s fair...uh, well, why don’t I speak first, yeah? Just jump in whenever you want, okay?” 

Harry looks at him, a small, grateful smile on his lips as he nods, before looking back down at his lap. 

“Well, I suppose, I just…” Louis inhales, glancing around the room. This is much harder than he thought it would be. “I just want to apologise, Haz, I was a complete twat and I’m just...I’m sorry, god, I am, really, you don’t know how much I regret everything that- that happened.” 

There’s silence for a few seconds, painful to his ears, before Harry speaks up in a low voice. 

“You called me a slag, Louis.” 

“I know,” he swallows, hard, glancing at him and looking away again like he’s been burnt. “I know, I was drunk - and I’m not using that as an excuse, I swear, I’m sorry, I mean you- you know I would never- that I didn’t mean that...right? You know that?” 

It takes Harry a few seconds to answer but he does, nodding his head as he inhales shakily, looking away. 

“Yeah, I-I know. I just...it just hurt me, I guess.” 

And just- it makes Louis’ chest  _ ache,  _ so odd that words - only sounds - can make him feel such a tangible, physical way. 

“I’m sorry, Haz, I’m so sorry, for-for everything,  _ fuck _ ,” Louis looks at him this time, begging, imploring him to understand and finally Harry turns to him, green eyes wet with tears. 

“I know, I know, Lou, I know that...I just don’t  _ understand _ , I mean when did we- when did it all just…” He trails off, a few tears slipping over his cheeks, darkening his lashes and Louis can’t look away. He’s taken, mesmerised, by the enigmatic ambience that is Harry Styles. 

Louis shakes his head slightly, swallowing back another lump that’s constricting his throat. “I don’t know, darlin’. I don’t know. ‘M sorry.” 

Harry watches him for a moment, more salty pearls falling from his eyes.

They spend the rest of the night in the bedroom, as the sun drips down the sky, painting the room in an abundance of warm colours, yellows and oranges and reds alighting the walls before finally, as the hours climb, they’re put out by a cooling array of dark blues and dusky purples. 

And they talk; more in that evening than they have in the last year or so, probably. Even when they’re not speaking, they stay close, legs tangled together, hearts even more so. 

Louis doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but it’s difficult, when Harry’s so open with him, when he feels so young, so juvenescent, again. He’d forgotten what it was like to be  _ in _ love, immersed in such a plethora of candescent emotions, thriving off one another, just the right amount of dependence to feel emotionally-intact. 

They still have a long way to go, is the thing, and they need to figure out how they went wrong, which dodgy turn they took that led them here but right now, in this dimly lit moment, everything feels almost complete. 

  
  


“I’m sorry too,” Harry says suddenly, smile fading off his face as he searches Louis’ eyes. “I realised I hadn’t said it before but I am. For not returning your calls and for- for bitching to Zayn and not communicating. I was just- god, Louis, I was so  _ scared  _ that this was it and I know it sounds so selfish but I thought you were calling to break up with me and I  _ couldn’t,  _ I couldn’t deal with hearing you say that, christ, I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Louis murmurs, tilting Harry’s face up, cupping his jaw so gently. “None of that, alright? You don’t have to apologise, baby, I- we’re here now, okay? Let’s just take it one day at a time, yeah? Figure things out?” 

Harry nods, hand reaching up to clasp Louis’ wrist, thumb rubbing over his pulse point. 

“Yeah, yeah, please.” His lips are soft against Louis’, a breath of a touch, barely there. 

The city skyline hit differently in the velvet depths of the night. The two of them have tumbled out into the satin secrets of twilight, young lovers drunk off each other. They’re standing on the balcony from the doors of the bedroom, Louis wrapped around Harry from behind, laughter spilling from their mouths. 

It seems so strange to Louis that just a week ago he was crying his eyes out over this very boy whom he has in his arms now. 

“Look, I know,” he murmurs quietly, staring out at the lights set against the nightsky, pressing the words into Harry’s neck. “I know we still have a lot to do but I really wanna make this work, I mean you’re- you’re  _ it  _ for me, Haz, I can’t think of anyone else there would ever be. I love you, fuck, I love you so much and you have to - you  _ have  _ to know that.” 

Harry looks around at him, cradling Louis’ jaw in his hand, searching through his face. Louis stares at him, eyes open, beseeching, knowing that he’s just placed his heart entirely in Harry’s hands.

“I do know,” Harry whispers softly. “We’ve always known that about each other, Lou, you know I love you. You must.” 

He does. Harry’s lips are comforting against his when he kisses him, slipping his tongue inside the plushness as they move slowly, deeply, against one another, kissing like that of Romeo and Juliet. 

  
Louis lets his eyes flutter closed, lashes sweeping his skin as he inhales deeply, the raw air rolling into his lungs. Like this, so distant and separated from everything except Harry that grounds him, the orange city lights are fireflies – buzzing softly in the twilight, their tangy, burnt colours imprinting themselves onto his eyelids, their whispered words of malice tattooed onto his skin. 

It’s so easy, Louis thinks suddenly, sentences mindlessly lifting themselves to the opening of his flushed lips where they’re sliding over Harry’s, to just fall, weightless, into this deep oblivion of nothing. Their entwined black silhouettes are bold and picturesque against the night although their hearts speak only of tragic romantics. 

Right here, now, he could fall, is sorely tempted to, down into the endless oasis of fiery stars, through milky galaxies and weightless universes. Louis doesn’t mind, he thinks fiercely, gripping Harry tighter in his arms, because as long as he has Harry and Harry as him then it’s enough. Will always be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> huh that’s it i suppose
> 
> comments + kudos incredibly appreciated


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